


Nevarran Grapes

by lrceleste



Series: DA Kink Meme Fills [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Fat Shaming, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain, fat Dorian, he looks at it in a semi negative light to begin with, just throw me in the trash, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lrceleste/pseuds/lrceleste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed to have crept up on him, not quite realising the extent of just how bad it had gotten until he awoke one morning, Adaar’s lazy hands tenderly massaging his stomach, and the realisation came crashing all at once, sweet Maker... Of course it would all come up to catch him sooner or later, the small treats (honestly what harm was one more, and another, well he may as well finish them now), the increasing number of times he’d blown off training for reading in the library. Since Corypheus’ downfall he had become more and more sedentary as the days progressed...And much, much softer.</p>
<p>For the Kink meme prompt 'Dorian is getting fat, and his LI is loving it. Dorian is also loving it, but he wouldn't admit it, would he?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nevarran Grapes

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately the past couple weeks haven't been the best for me, so I needed something to cheer me up a bit. Apparently that something came in the form of reading piles upon piles of kinky fics which was a bit of a surprise for me. This particular prompt caught my eye, it being a personal favourite that I started ages ago but never got anywhere close to finishing, so I decided to give it a go. It was a nice break from everything that's going on, and I hope if this is your thing that you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
> 
>  
> 
> [Here's a link to the prompt on the kmeme](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=54221805#t54221805)

Dorian stood before the full length mirror, ‘preening’ himself as some jokingly called it, but in actuality it was more than that. He was slowly studying his middle, the weight that amassed there, soft and protruding. His fingers prodded gently, watching as his skin dimpled beneath them.

It seemed to have crept up on him, not quite realising the extent of just how bad it had gotten until he awoke one morning, Adaar’s lazy hands tenderly massaging his stomach, and the realisation came crashing all at once, _sweet Maker_. Of course it would all come up to catch him sooner or later, the small treats (honestly what harm was one more, and another, well he may as well _finish_ them now), the increasing number of times he’d blown off training for reading in the library. Since Corypheus’ downfall he had become more and more sedentary as the days progressed. As fewer rifts plagued Thedas his tasks had turned more towards research than field work.

But Maker, no matter how much he attempted to hide it, of course he’d notice sooner of later that he’d grown softer, and he was sure Adaar had noticed too, and thus far shown no objection. He was almost sure it was his mind twisting it, attempting to make the whole experience less demeaning, but he almost believed the qunari had shown the opposite as a matter of fact, expressing some sort of fondness for his new figure. The Vashoth’s large hands constantly found a way to roam towards his stomach, towards his ass, towards newly formed love-handles, squeezing at the ample softness.

He put it out of mind as he had become so adept, dressing in his robes with newfound difficulty. Robes that he noted (but only briefly, dwelling on it would be acknowledging its existence) wouldn’t fit for much longer if his current rate of expansion continued. As it stood he’d loosened a great number of the straps, stabbing a few extra holes in some of his belts so they no longer cut into him. He’d been forced to swap out his usual breeches for something slightly more spacious, slightly more capable of holding him, and he imagined his robes would follow suit soon enough. Especially considering the way they now served to showcase his softened chest, instead of the chiselled pectorals they were designed for.

He paused for a moment longer in front of the mirror, inspecting the way his body strained against the fabric, and his breath caught. No matter how he tried to hide it, tried to ignore the swell that had amassed between his hips, he knew the reason for his pause. Adaar’s enjoyment may have been a figment of his imagination. The slight quickening of his own heart certainly was not.

When alone, and he loathed to admit it, sometimes (or if he was brutally honest rather often) he’d find his own hands roaming, smoothing over the new curves, and not in an attempt to lessen them, no, in a desperate, grasping attempt to feel the more of him. As much as he did hate to admit, because that also meant admitting to the fact that it existed, but the new line of his stomach, soft and round and beginning to fight for dominance with the hem of his breeches, it made things stir within him. It made him wonder. What if there was more? More for Adaar to pinch ever so lightly, to squeeze and caress in handfuls. More for his own hands to roam over.

But he quickly shook away the thought. Denied it. Even as another part of him began to quietly wonder how it would feel to sit with his stomach resting on his thighs, the sensation of his expanding ass spilling over the edges of a seat, armrests cutting into his growing love handles.

Coughing quickly, he finally managed to banish the thoughts long enough to adjust his robes, ensuring they covered him completely, deciding it bared to much of his doughier form, and opting to pull a cloak over his shoulders, at least to save the citizens of Skyhold an eyeful. Then, he set to work on ‘preening’.

When he was finally happy with the way his hair and clothing sat he left the room, heading immediately for the inquisitors quarters. The sun was setting behind the mountains, and the red light cast through the stain glass windows bathed the fort in strange blocks of colour, blues turned purple, yellows made orange, and greens sent into a hideous variation of something that he would tentatively call brown, but would be more suitably called ‘shit’.

Entering through the first door, ascending the steps to the inquisitor’s quarters, he wondered what in Thedas could possibly be planned for the evening. Typically he would have entered into the chamber without hesitation, but he wanted to give the qunari time to complete anything he may have planned for this thing the Altus was tentatively referring to as a ‘date’, even after the almost two years they had been together.

No doubt it was a wise decision. As he paused for breath whilst knocking on the door, wondering when a few flights of stairs had begun to thwart him, Adaar called from within, “I’ll only be a moment.”

The shuffling that came from within was only slightly ominous, but quickly it stopped, replaced by the sound of feet drawing closer. When Adaar pulled the door open, standing in the formal attire they had worn at Halamshiral, Dorian couldn’t help but smile, very aware that it only brought to light the second chin he knew he was developing. He doubted that he could even fit into his own attire if he’d had any desire to.

“Is that the only formal clothing you own?” He asked as he sauntered into the room.

Adaar chuckled quietly, closing the door before answering, “Qunari mercenaries don’t tend to be at the top of dinner party guest lists.”

“So what’s the occasion?” He questioned climbing the final few stairs, and his answer was sat before him.

“Dinner.”

A single table was set for two before the fire. He noted that it was all set correctly, flowers as a centre piece, a cloche on either side of the table and an abundance of glasses and cutlery that could only mean it was set to the Orlesian standard, and Dorian had to wonder how much assistance Lady Montilyet had offered.

“That sounds marvellous _amatus_ , I’m famished.” He admitted, he wouldn’t admit to the sweets he’d been stealing away since the hunger had kicked in an hour ago however, as he pulled his cloak away and set it on the chaise longue. There was no point in being chaste before the inquisitor “What exactly will we be dining on this evening?”

“I have a few surprises in store.” Dorian paused beside the table, inhaling deeply, catching the scent of whatever Adaar planned to serve, and it was a surprise, that was for certain. Though he couldn’t quite put a name to the culmination of scents, the familiarity of it all was almost overwhelming.

“How? It’s a Tevinter recipe, surely?”

“Yep.” He answered with a grin that was more than pleased. “I found an old cookbook at a merchant; it says this is popular in the north of the Imperium. I hope you like it.”

“As long as it doesn’t consist of figs.” He joked. “I can’t stand the things. Mother used to eat them with honey constantly.”

“I’m glad I didn’t pick that then.” He chuckled. As he pulled back one of the seats offering it up as a gentleman was supposed to, he asked, “Any other aversions I should know about before I present this and you break my heart?”

Dorian took the chair tentatively as he answered, “None too serious. What’s brought this along anyhow?”

“I told you. I wanted a quiet date.”

“I know that, but the formal attire, the special recipe?”

“I just wanted to treat you. Now, red or white señor?”

“Senor? Antivan wines perhaps? Which would go best with our meal?” He asked with a cocked eyebrow, truly testing the qunari turned waiter.

“White?” He asked tentatively.

“I assume then that we’ll be enjoying some variety of seafood dish this evening?”

“Thank fuck for that.” He sighed, causing Dorian to chuckle, before he regained the moderately sophisticated air, “I mean, perfect, white it is.”

He crossed to the dresser, pulling the bottle from a bucket of slushy snow that Dorian could only imagine had been plucked straight from the mountain.

“As assumed, an Antivan Verdejo.” Adaar stated as he poured the drink. “For the love of the maker please don’t ask me anything else about it, because I honestly have no idea.”

“How about, is there more?” He asked after taking a small sip of the fruity wine, it was one that he had tasted before, albeit he was used to something with more bitter undertones, this was surprisingly palatable in comparison to his experience with Antivan wines.

“That I can answer, we have an abundance of everything tonight.”

“Good... I didn’t expect you to have a wealth of cuisine knowledge, can’t see it being of much use to a mercenary.”

“I imagine you’d be surprised what does come in use to a mercenary.” He laughed as he poured his own drink. Whilst the qunari was distracted Dorian attempted to peek at the food under the cover but received a sharp, “Ah! Not when I can’t see your face.”

He chuckled quietly. “How long do you intend on taking? Surely it’ll have turned cold by now?”

“You can’t tell me a qunari saarebas can use pyromancy to keep food warm but the magisterium hasn’t figured that one out yet?”

“Most Magisters usually don’t have to deal with keeping their food warm, they usually have… Someone to cook it for them.”

“Oh of course, I forgot that in the Magisterium food magically appears.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “So will dinner be served this evening, or will you simply watch and wait while I waste away?”

Adaar smiled fondly, stepping forward, hand perched on the cloche, and Dorian was only too glad that the qunari hadn’t taken the easy option, they always teased like this, catty, but in good humour, there was no harm meant in it, and it never went far enough that anyone’s feelings were hurt. But how easy it would have been for that simple jab, that ‘oh Dorian, I doubt you’ll be wasting away anytime soon.’ And he would have scoffed, would have laughed it off as a joke and thrown back something equal. But they never said anything that hurt, and he didn’t know which was worse, the fact that he had become a man extraordinarily conscious of the fact that he had become, well, to put it bluntly _fat_ , (the only things he had time to sugar-coat nowadays were those he was stuffing into his mouth.) Or the fact that Adaar was evidently aware that he had become- oh, Maker what a pile shit he’d landed in. All for the sake of a few extra blighted muffins.

Thankfully his attention was pulled from the recesses of his own imagination as Adaar pulled away the lid revealing the food. Though the presentation was undoubtedly different, there was no mistaking the dish that sat before him; he had dined on it many times. He was extraordinarily surprised to see it this far south.

The rice, not a surprise. He’d been practically living off the stuff, taking its turn with potatoes, in the early days of the inquisition when they had no backing, no trade or space to be sufficient for themselves, not that they had much of a chance now in this frozen mountain range. The fish that sat atop the mound of rice was more of a surprise, however he recognised it as something other than the striped bass he was used to, evidently not imported but native to Orlais to Ferelden. What surprised him the most was the topping. Mangoes. Maker he could barely remember the last time he’d seen one, it had been so long since Tevinter, let alone had it set before him. And peppers, someone divine was surely smiling upon him, he could smell the garlic, and knew of the lime and orange in the sauce and taking a sip of the Antivan white was all he could do to keep from salivating atop the meal set before him.

In the time it took for Dorian to regain some slight composure Adaar had taken his seat. “Is it alright?”

Dorian looked down at the food amassed before him and couldn’t help but bark out a laugh as he finally took in the whole plate. Once he looked past the parts, looked at the whole… At the sheer _volume_ of it all. Adaar looked upset for a brief moment, before asking, “Is there something wrong with it?”

“I barely recognised it!” When he saw the kicked puppy look turned to him instead of the food he withdrew the statement immediately. “You misunderstand, it looks marvellous, delectable. I can’t believe you’ve imported mangoes, and peppers! But, ah, in Tevinter the meals were not so…” He waved his hand in a circle trying to find the word he was searching for, “Hearty!”

“Hearty?”

“Yes. Not quite like the Orlesians, but the nobility was catching onto the whole aspect of ‘fine dining’, a miniscule mound of rice, a filet and some sauce dribbled atop it. Then I come down south to find a small mountain set before me.” He chuckled. “No wonder I’ve gained-”

They sat in silence for a moment after he cut off the sentence. Adaar finally filled the void, “The recipe called for bass but there’s no way in Thedas we’d get fish here before it began to stink. So welcome to the Orlais/Ferelden border where the next best thing is cod apparently… Please try it.”

Upon his insistence Dorian lifted what he had been taught in etiquette was the correct fork, though he was unsure Adaar was aware which he should be using, even if he had been taught for Halamshiral or this occasion especially, odds were with his gaze that intent on Dorian forks were forgotten. The Tevinter made a show of it, cutting off a bite of the fish, ensuring he had a pile of the thick sauce, adding a small amount of rice for good measure. He wrapped his lips around it slowly, smiling around the mouthful as Adaar squirmed slightly, his nerves showing.

The flavours burst on his tongue immediately, it was undoubtedly fantastic, but he chewed the bite slowly, exaggerating the motions, drawing out the event. Adaar squirmed once more as Dorian finally swallowed, tapping his full lips in deliberation, before suddenly dropping the façade, “Oh stop squirming, it’s fantastic.”

Adaar released a breathy laugh, sighing in relief. “Well you’d better finish it. I’ve been slaving over it all day.”

“All day?”

“That’s the fourth I’ve made. The staff have been eating like kings.”

Conversation became rather casual after that. Dorian would say _rather_ instead of _wholly_ due to the fact that Adaar still shifted occasionally in his seat, evidentially distracted by something or other, but not enough so to still the flow of conversation. He also could admit to minor distractions, or not so minor, dependant on how one wanted to measure them. In terms of disrupting conversation, highly unlikely, and therefore minor. In terms of actual, physical size, his waist was larger than hoped, and if feeling was anything to go by, steadily growing.

Thus far he’d managed to completely conceal the few belches that had threatened. Dorian Pavus was nothing if not determined. Well, he was handsome, and charming, and intelligent. On second thoughts he was many things, but right then he was determined. Determined to finish the meal placed before him.

But he was almost fit to burst. Utterly ridiculous, he’d seen humans burst, and it wasn’t the result of too much rice and fish, it was a well-timed spell that finished them, but it felt very much like this would be his undoing. His belly pushed against the fabric and he’d long ago been forced to lean back in his seat to allow for comfortable dining, the waist on his breeches cutting into his protruding gut. And yet his plate still wasn’t clear, and Adaar was now topping up his glass with Agreggio Pavali, the Verdejo finished.

“You know you have a lot in common with this bottle…” Adaar began.

“I’m not entirely certain I want to hear the reasons, but please do continue, you’ve caught my attention.” Dorian admitted shovelling a forkful of rice into his mouth against his stomachs protests.

“Second names begin with ‘Pav’.”

“If that’s your opener I have poor hope for the rest.” Dorian chuckled as he swallowed away the food, taking a deep breath as he collected his next mouthful.

“Case two, you’re both Tevinter.”

“Well that much is true.” He hardly had to confirm as he took another mouthful, slowly chewing the rice.

“And you’re both full of wine.”

Dorian choked on the rice for a moment and Adaar was immediately pushing bag his chair to help his lover, but Dorian held up a hand, signalling that he was well. When he swallowed away the food he laughed and Adaar finally let out the chuckle he’d evidently been stifling until he knew Dorian was well. The Altus swatted Adaar’s arm, “ _You_ are an ass!”

“And after I made you this delectable meal?!”

 “This delectable meal is going to be the death of me.” Dorian stated looking between the few mouthfuls of rice and fish that remained on the plate, and his stomach, swollen and jutting from his hips, gurgling in protest.

“You’ve barely a few more mouthfuls.”

Dorian huffed out a laugh. “That’s easy for you to say. There’s more of you to hold it, we tiny humans don’t have the same capacity as a hulking qunari.” He would neglect to mention the fact he was almost certain his rice had been piled a little higher than the qunari’s.

“Go on, two more mouthfuls. It’ll make cleaning easier for the staff”

“You are a demon.” Dorian sighed as he placed the fork between his lips again.

“What kind of demon, desire?” He asked with a waggle of his eyebrows,, and Dorian had to focus entirely on the rice in his mouth and not on the thoughts that were sneaking into his mind. The feeling of his own stomach round and fat pressed against his thighs, Adaar’s encouraging hands caressing and teasing. Hunger and Sloth came to his imagination, laid in his lover’s arms as treats were pressed to his lips.

Instead his lips pulled into a fond smile, “Your face says Terror.”

“Wow. My pour heart… It’s good enough for you though.”

“I jest. There are far worse faces to wake up next to in a morning.” He answered taking another mouthful even though his stomach groaned in protest. There was no malice, especially not as he reached across the table to stroke the back of Adaar’s hand.

“One more.” The qunari enthused looking down at the plate.

“And then you’ll want me to lick it clean? Aren’t you paying them to clean the dishes?” He joked. But he did as instructed, piling the last mouthful onto the fork, eating it with a groan of satisfaction his eyes falling shut as he leaned back as far as his seat would allow, affording as much relief to his straining stomach as physically possible.

He finally laid his fork down atop the plate, letting out a sigh which he couldn’t discern whether it was born from content or relief. Adaar chuckled quietly. “Ready for dessert?”

“Dessert?!” Dorian asked with a huff, his hand falling to his stomach, rubbing a soothing circle through his robes. He felt fit to burst it was so full with the heavy rice and rich fruity sauce. “Surely you must me joking?”

Adaar’s smile only widened at the display, as if it were a challenge. “Loosen one of your many belts; give yourself a bit more room.”

Dorian dared not admit it was not only the belts pressing on him, that every inch of fabric was clinging to his body. That the belts had holes prodded into them to the very ends of their limits, the only way he could loosen one would be to remove it entirely.

It was as if Adaar had read his mind, or perhaps simply read the way he fidgeted against the fabric, “Or remove it all together?”

“And skip dessert?”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it. I thought that you speak about being fed grapes so often, it seemed rather overdue.” He explained with a sip of his wine. But Dorian could tell, he could see the blush the qunari was trying to hide with the nonchalant action.

“Perhaps I could manage a few.” He admitted.

“To the bed?” Adaar suggested, gesturing.

Nodding slightly Dorian hefted his body from the chair, slightly disconcerted at the fact it was most certainly hefting and nothing as graceful as rising. Maker did he feel heavy, but before he could dwell on it too long Adaar had climbed from his seat, hands ghosting over Dorian’s hips, bunching his robes, as the qunari’s fingers snuck under the material.

He almost wanted to stop him, almost wanted to demand they keep their clothes on for a little longer, long enough for the candles to burn out perhaps, long enough to put his undeniable paunch out of sight and hopefully out of mind. This was too close to the fantasies. Too close to fulfilling the temptations.

His mouth stepped into action, as he suggested, “Perhaps we should have that dessert first?”

Adaar was quick to remove his hands when he sensed the Tevinter’s discomfort, asking, “Dorian, are you alright?”

But the Altus didn’t feel eased, as he pulled down his bunched robes, feeling even tighter over his rounded, taut stomach. He stumbled backwards, foot clipping the edge of the bed, and as he fell backwards he could only think _could this possibly get any worse_. Thankfully the mattress was there to catch him, even though he imagined he had more than enough of his own padding to cushion the fall.

To his horror, however, as he landed on the bed, sat upright in an attempt to maintain some ounce of dignity even as Adaar reached out reflexively to aid him, he heard what was unmistakeably the sound of fabric ripping. Unmistakeable because he could feel the holes in the seams at his sides, the edge of the fabric digging into tan skin where his soft fat was bursting from his clothing, fighting to escape the captive restraints it had near been poured into.

Dorian could _feel_ the blush on his cheeks and he loathed to imagine the shade of crimson he must have turned. His embarrassment was only increased tenfold when he finally raised his eyes from the ground, meeting Adaar’s, only to be distracted by the bright red of the qunari’s own cheeks. Brilliant. _Perfect._ The Inquisitor was embarrassed for him. Just what he needed. Adaar had been accommodating of his gain thus far, but of course there had to be a limit to it.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to murmur, eyes beginning to sting. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the current state he was in, or the stirring in his cock at the whole predicament. Of all the horrifying times to be aroused, now was likely one of the worst.

“Dorian.” The qunari managed to choke out, outstretched hand finally lowering, as if functionality had only just returned to his body.

He cast his eyes down, unable to keep them locked, and he couldn’t be sure if it was a blessing by which he noticed the straining in Adaar’s own breeches, for an entirely different reason than Dorian’s own seam-splitting.

The Altus stared for a moment before coming to his senses. “ _You’re hard?!_ ”

“I- I, you see… It’s not- It’s not what you-…” The qunari fumbled, before admitting. “Honestly, I have been most of the meal.”

“You’re enjoying this?!” He asked in shock.

He didn’t believe it possible, but Adaar’s blush deepened, turning positively scarlet, and Dorian realised quickly the embarrassment was the qunari’s own when he stuttered out an explanation of sorts, “I- I suppose you could say-…  Well. Yes, I _like_ your new shape. Not that I didn’t like your old one! I just well- Ah…”

“You like _this_?” Dorian questioned, gesturing to his waist, to his distended belly, round and taut and so full it was beginning to press against his thighs when he leaned forward ever so slightly.

Adaar reached forward tentatively, a large hand rubbing over Dorian’s stomach. “Yes.”

There was a brief moment of awkwardness. A moment where Adaar looked up to him with the expectant rejection clear in his features. Dorian wetted his dry lips, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, capturing it there, as he reached his arms around Adaar’s neck pulling the qunari’s face closer.

The inquisitor’s face turned to one of expectation, one of wanting, as his lips parted, but Dorian didn’t offer him the kiss he was obviously anticipating. Instead, hot breath against warm crimson cheeks Dorian pulled a pointed ear closer, mindful of curling horns, his vision dipping to Adaar’s cock, hard and ready. So he hadn’t been wrong, the touches, caresses, it was all true. Adaar wanted it too. With a smile the qunari couldn’t see he whispered, “Would you make me bigger?”

Tensing, a sharp breath escaped Adaar’s lips as his hands shifted, one still resting on Dorian’s stomach massaging the strained skin, still covered in some doughy softness, his other hand resting on thickened thighs. “Yes.” He breathed. “Maker, Yes.”

“You’d make me fat?” Dorian asked, and the groan Adaar gave as way of reply went straight to his cock.

The qunari caught Dorian’s face in his hand pulling their lips together in a messy kiss, as he pressed him against the mattress. His hand ran over Dorian’s stomach squeezing and the Altus pulled away, “Oh Maker don’t, I’ll pop.”

“Maybe we’d better work up a sweat, get some room in for dessert?”

“Doesn’t exercise defeat the object?”

“Well you could just lie there and look perfect as I fuck you senseless?”

“Now _that_ sounds like a plan.” Dorian sighed, snuggling back into the Vashoth’s grasp.

The grin the spread across Adaar’s lips promised that his decision would not be one he would come to regret. Large hands once again toyed with his robes. The qunari looked down at the ruined garment, split on both sides, and then back up to Dorian and before he even had a chance to voice the question, a single raised eyebrow spoke as clear as day.

“If you must, you brute. I’ll never fit into them again.”

Dorian had anticipated the cliché ripping of fabric, the qunari tearing through his clothing like some sort of mad man he was so fuelled by lust. Instead Adaar clicked his fingers, and the Altus only felt the bare remnants of heat, and the flutters of the ash that was the remainders of his robes.

“You mad man!” He cried.

“You gave me permission!”

“To lustfully tear into them like some sort of savage beast. Not completely incinerate my best robes!”

“Stereotypes are overrated.” He grunted as he gripped Dorian’s breeches, ripping them from his body.

He would have been lying if he said it didn’t cause his cock to twitch, now visibly, all of his under things had grown too tight recently, and he knew they wouldn’t be necessary for the evening’s entertainment. “ _They_ still fit!”

“Didn’t look like it to me.” Adaar smirked, leaning forward to press his lips to the red lines on Dorian’s stomach where the breeches had been straining against him.

“They fit perfectly fine when I don’t have a qunari filling me with rice and wine.”

“Oh what hardship!” He mocked, lips trailing lower, following the smattering of hair on Dorian’s stomach. “Being asked to partake in fine dining and wine drinking… With a devilishly handsome leader.”

“What hardship indeed.” Dorian groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Well, how about I fill you with something else?”

“Maker please, you’re insuff-” He gasped as Adaar kissed the tip of his cock, and with only a few strokes more Dorian was achingly hard.

With a chuckle the inquisitor drew away before relieving himself of his own clothing, revealing ample muscles, covered by only a thin layer of softness in his abdomen, all still hard and defined. Dorian watched as Adaar oiled up his hard prick, his hand running over the qunari’s muscular thigh, the inquisitor’s marked hand resting atop Dorian’s own. It was the tiny intimacies such as those that made it different, this thing that was most assuredly a relationship.

“Ready?” He asked.

“As ever.” Dorian replied.

It was tender, to a point. The way Adaar cupped Dorian’s cheeks lifting him from the mattress was tender, the big calloused hands that ran over his body were gentle and loving, and when Dorian loosely wrapped his legs around Adaar it was with a contented smile, drunk on nothing but love (and a few glasses of wine, but _children_ had that with their meals in Tevinter.)

After that was roughly the point at which the tenderness was replaced by something far more primal. Adaar entered him slowly, mindful of his girth, and Dorian moaned under the slow feeling of being filled so completely. The qunari pulled back slowly, bringing with it the sickly wet sound and pleasant friction that was extraordinarily familiar.

“You good?” He asked breathlessly.

At the beginning Dorian had been slightly unnerved; he’d never been with a man that gave him so many opportunities to run away, even whilst his dick was buried in him, but over time he’d come to understand the reasoning. “Maker just fuck me.”

With that Adaar pushed forward sharply, drawing forth a deep moan from the Altus. As he built an ever quickening pace, Dorian’s calves crossed behind his back, his legs tightening, tensing as he pushed himself long and hard against Adaar’s cock to the rhythm of the hands on his hips moans tumbling forth a mixture of Tevene and the common tongue.

His own hands found purchase, one gripping Adaar’s wrist as the qunari’s hands cradled his hips, the other on his own cock, stroking in time to the thrusts, coaxing his own orgasm closer. Adaar stilled, hot seed coating Dorian insides as the qunari moaned.

As they both panted, Adaar coming down, and Dorian chasing his own release, the qunari pulled out, his own hand replacing Dorian’s on the Altus’ stiff and aching member. His leaking prick was pressed down against the round swell of his own stomach, and he imagined when it would be so easy to do so, no effort required, he would shift, and feel the weight of his own glorious middle pressing down on his cock.

“Gorgeous.” Adaar grunted, as he ran a hand over the swell of Dorian’s belly, rising and falling with every pant. Alone he always craved the touch, imagined that he could somehow replicate the large rough hands with his own, but they never compared. Then he imagined those big hands, pumping so hard his huge belly swayed with the momentum and he came, coating his stomach in his own seed, Adaar’s lips close to his ear, muttering words of praise, about how beautiful he was, round and fat, and full of his cum.

“I’m sure I could get used to this.” Dorian sighed as Adaar pulled him closer, tucking his head against his chest.

“I bet you could.” He chuckled, “So, room for dessert?”

His fingers ghosted over his stomach, still taut and rather full, but he saw the shy smile on Adaar’s lips, the hopefulness. “I’m sure I could fit a little more.”

The smile widened into a grin as the qunari turned away, never loosening his grip on the mage. When the bowl of grapes was placed precariously in the inquisitor’s naked lap, Dorian reached for it, only for his hand to be slapped away playfully. With the hand that had refused him, Adaar picking one of the fruits from its vine, before holding it before the Tevinter’s parted lips. Dorian paused for only a moment, before eating straight from the qunari’s hand, full lips wrapping around thick fingers for a moment, before he plucked the ripe fruit from his grasp.

As Dorian bit into the fruit, the juices flooding onto his tongue Adaar spoke, “Are they to your liking?”

“Very much so.” He answered after finishing, Adaar ready with a second pressed to his lips.

“I was worried you’d disapprove. These aren’t Tevinter grapes, they wouldn’t have lasted the journey, the mangoes barely survived.”

Dorian frowned for a moment, “Though I imagine a Tevinter grape would be far more palatable, I can’t complain.”

“They’re Nevarran.” He stated as he fed the Altus another.

“Perhaps I can.” Dorian teased, but in all honesty he was content.

A younger Dorian would have frowned upon him, probably even have laughed at him, teased him, and all with spite. But he was not a younger Dorian. He was in a- a relationship with a ridiculous qunari. Maker help him he was getting fat, and he was happy about that fact, more than happy if the food and sex was anything to go by. He was surrounded by friends, and although it was cold in these Maker forsaken mountains, he could hold.

Yes, he was very much content, even with Nevarran grapes.


End file.
